Love: The Power of Life and Death- Johnlock
by Tink1507
Summary: It has been 3 years since Sherlock Holmes fell to his 'death', suddenly he discovers things that he never noticed about his companion, John Watson who is now suffering with depression after the fall. That is until, Sherlock returns...
1. Memories of the Army Doctor

Sherlock awoke to a line of moonlight, fighting its way through a crack in the bedroom curtains of the worn abandoned house. It shone brightly across his perfectly sculpted face and it meandered at his cheekbones. The brightness emphasised the colour of the detectives pale face.

He clumsily reached for his iphone in his half- conscious state before looking at the time: 4:50 am. Sherlock groaned before throwing off his warm duvet and dragging himself into the kitchen.

Click. Sherlock poured the boiling water into his mug and added sugar to his tea. He then made his way over the dusty pine flooring towards his worn armchair and sat himself down before picking up his laptop beside him and browsing through the news. At the very top of the brightly lit screen was a headline: 'Scotland Yard's Forensics Team Identifies Murderer of an Accountant'. "Idiots." Sherlock remarked as he read through the article, slowly sipping his tea as he observed the photographs of the crime scene. Eventually the detective lay back in his chair; massaging his temples in frustration at the obviously incorrect accusation. "Anderson, how are you still alive with your level of stupidity..."

The fatigued man searched the room for things to cure his boredom. His eyes observed his surroundings; peeling wallpaper covered the walls and there was a water stain on the ceiling above the bookshelf. The bookshelf. Sherlock came to a decision; he will read. He walked towards the mahogany shelves and scanned its contents; mumbling each book title as his eyes brushed over them. "Best Criminal Masterminds"..."The Art of Manipulation"..." My book of sheet music"...and then there was a book which caught the man's attention. A smile broke onto his face. "The A-Z of London" he read aloud before picking up the paperback and returning to his armchair. Sherlock flicked through the pages and inhaled deeply at the scent of the book. Memories flooded back to him...

"You took your time."

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and pin machine."

"Y-you had a row with a machine?"

"Sort of, it sat there and I shouted abuse..."

The detective chuckled at the memory. That was the day that the case first started; the case where the simple book that he held in his hands was the key to deciphering the code. It was the case that John had named 'The Blind Banker'.

Sherlock couldn't resist, he dropped the book and reached for his laptop again. For hours the man read through each and every single blog that John had wrote, smiling at all of the memories of living life with John and Mrs Hudson in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock's happy thoughts soon came to a stop though, when he reached the bottom of the web page and saw the hyperlink to John's final blog. 'The Reichenback Fall'. The detective's eyes widened; he shakily put down his third cup of tea that he had that morning. It all came to him at once; throughout the whole week he had dealt with a hidden reminder at the back of his thoughts, something he could not quite put his finger on...until now. 3 years today. Three years since Sherlock fell to his 'death'. Three years since he saw James Moriarty put a gun to his mouth. Three years since he left John Hamish Watson. "John..." Sherlock whimpered as a tear ran over his cheekbone and down his face.


	2. The Sudden Realisation

The detective closed his eyes, enhancing his visual memory. It was if he was there again; at the top of St. Bart's Hospital. A phone in his hand and a doctor in his sight. There was something that Sherlock missed though, something that was hidden by his blinding anxiety and rush of adrenaline. What the detective had missed was John's face and his tone of voice. Now as the man recalled it, John seemed so...different. His shaky voice consisted of pure desperation; his face, full of worry and something that the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't decipher. He had seen John in stressful situations, either due to money problems or being in life threatening situations, so this hidden emotion was not completely related to stress alone, it couldn't be. The detective sat there for 5 minutes, accessing his mind palace; and then, all at once, everything became clear. John's face before the fall was almost the same as when he saw Sarah during her near death experience; except, his face was a lot less intense, there was very little expression in his eyes then, in comparison to the fall. It was more in relation to Irene Adler's face, when Sherlock had confronted her, cracked her password, proven her love for him and then walked out on her. This was too much for him to take in. The army doctor's face, revealed his broken heart...


	3. A Much More Powerful Motivator

Sherlock's hands were shaking, his mind spinning. How could he have never noticed this? There were clear signs to look out for; heart acceleration, blushing and pupil dilation to name a few. Being the man he is, Sherlock would have deduced John's sentiments in a heartbeat. He did it with Irene, why not John? Could the fact that that he was an army doctor mislead the detective? Because of his occupation, John would have to remain quite calm and reserved in most situations; obviously he would have to become more open after being invalidated from Afghanistan, but he could have used his past experiences to help conceal his true feelings towards the raven haired man. The only fault in Sherlock's conclusion was John's pupil dilation; something that cannot be controlled consciously. The only thing the detective could come up with is that the dimly lit rooms in 221B could have been misleading for Sherlock, making him think that John's eyes were adjusting to the light. After dismissing the possible reasons of John's undetectable emotions, many questions flooded Sherlock's mind: How long did John feel this way for? Was it lust or love? How has he dealt with the 'suicide of a fake genius'?

The detective became overwhelmed. He felt sick to his stomach with guilt. How could he have left John? As a reply, the memories reminded him, he had to jump to save John; John would have been killed if Sherlock hadn't have jumped. Despite the reasons, Sherlock found it inexcusable. He couldn't help himself, the poker-faced man who saw attachment and sentiment as a weakness gave in to his emotions and burst into tears. His knees were now tucked into his chest, his arms embracing them as his tears soaked the knees of his pyjama bottoms. "John..." he wailed through short breaths, "I'm so sorry..."

Wait, what was this? Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective who only expressed his emotions through his words was crying? Over guilt? Over John? What had gotten into him? He had felt guilt before, he even felt a strong attraction towards Irene Adler, yet he remained poker-faced in those situations. Something must have changed, yes, something's different now, and it wasn't because the man was tired. What possessed his mind to allow him to show this much emotion? Sherlock was overwhelmed with what was spinning through his brilliant mind. "It's different because it's more intense." he realised, "it's the only possible solution, friendship would not lead to this reaction from me, no matter how strong it may be. Like I said to the cabbie during the first case I had with John, 'Love is a much more powerful motivator'..."


	4. The Depression

He sat there, alone. John sat in his armchair clutching onto Sherlock's deerstalker.

_"Why is it always the hat photograph?"_

_"What hat is it anyway?"_

_"Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"_

_"You can't stalk a deer with a hat. What am I supposed to do? Throw it?"_

_"Is it like some sort of death Frisbee?"_

_"It's got flaps. Ear flaps. It's an ear hat John!"_

John smiled at the memory of the detective's frustration. Only the great Sherlock Holmes could be frustrated with a hat. The Doctor's eyes flooded with tears, threatening to spill; oh how he missed that man, his dark clotted curls across his forehead, his perfect cheekbones that could make any person-male or female- go weak, his reserved nature that made him so mysterious and of course, his brilliant mind.

It had never been the same for John since the fall; it was as if part of John was missing and there was only one person who could complete him. Sherlock Holmes. After witnessing his best friend jump from the top of the hospital, John was certain of his feelings towards the detective. It's true when they say that you don't know what you have until it's gone.

The doctor listened and watched the rain fall outside. Some droplets fell with great speed, crashing onto the window aggressively; others were waiting to fall from the edge of the roof, growing more and more each second, until they fell. Suddenly John saw a dove land on the windowsill, using the roof for shelter against the rain. Its objective failed though as the bird broke the fall of the raindrops falling every now and then from the edge of the roof. The blogger walked closer to the window, watching the bird. He saw the delicate feathers of the dove absorb the rain, softening their fall.

_*Buzz buzz*._ John reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

_'John, I appreciate that this will be a difficult day for you. Come for dinner later, we can have a catch up.'-MH_

John's puzzled face stared at the screen. What day was it today? He glanced at the calendar beside the mirror, above the fireplace; the doctor was struck with a pounding heart and weakened legs, threatening to give in to his weight. The man stumbled towards his armchair, gently picking up the deerstalker that was resting on it and he placed it on the empty seat opposite him. He fell into his chair helplessly, his mind spinning and his pulse continuing to accelerate. John looked back at the phone trapped tightly in his tense hands.

_'Thank you for the invitation but I'm busy today.'-JW _

John sent the lie to Mycroft as he endeavored to compose himself. "Three years!" He screamed "Three _bloody_ years!" He became helpless in his chair, sobbing violently as his memories haunted him. He remembered his first speech he gave to Sherlock's gravestone.

_"You told me once that you weren't a hero… um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

_Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"_

"Are you alright dear?" Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a hot cup of tea for the weeping blogger. John replied with a single nod, with his head in his hands, a phone in his lap and a detective in his heart.


	5. A Visit From Molly

Mrs Hudson placed her hand on the sobbing doctor's shoulder. "I understand dear," she began, "its going to be a difficult day for all of us. Would you like to come with me to his grave later?" John nodded quietly, tears still streaming down his face. The landlady gave John a weak smile, knowing that not much can be done to support the doctor. "I'll call Molly, shall I?" The doctor had to stop and focus on his breathing; he tried to lengthen the short rapid breaths that escaped his mouth. "That would be great, thanks." He eventually replied through his shaky broken voice which resembled his heart.

"Hello, John." Molly entered the living room and saw the doctor lying helplessly on the sofa. "Molly," John replied, "How are you?" He tried his best to sound casual; he tried to sound like he wasn't dying inside.

"I'm not my best actually, how about you?"

"I could be better." John answered through a shaky voice. Molly knelt down to the doctor's level, stroking his short blond hair while giving him a sympathetic smile. "I've got something that might cheer you up"

"What's that?" He mumbled. In response, Molly reached behind her and lifted up a box that was coloured with a soft shade of lilac; she opened the box to reveal nine treats, all lined up in 3. "I baked cupcakes!" She smiled. John inhaled deeply, taking in the delicious aroma that made his mouth water: vanilla. He gave Molly a grateful smile. The woman sat down as John sat up and moved along the sofa, giving her room. She gave one of the treats to the doctor and then took one for herself. "So how have you been?" John asked, taking a small bite into the cupcake, "Rather well," she replied, "not many people have been coming into the mortuary lately, so for the past week I've been dismissed early."

"And so you started baking because you were bored?" John finished. Molly chuckled, "Sherlock has certainly made a giant impact on you John." "Mmm," he replied in agreement; he felt his cheeks burning. "and now he's gone…" His eyes began to flood with his tears, blurring his vision. "But he was a brilliant man," Molly continued, trying to lighten the mood. "Because of that, he will never be forgot-"

_*Buzz Buzz* _

The woman pulled out her phone out of her pocket while John licked away vanilla icing from his upper lip, a tear rolling down his cheek as he thought of Sherlock.

'Molly, come over ASAP-SH'

She was about to put her phone away when it vibrated again.

'Forget 'ASAP' come over now.-SH'

"Who's that?" John asked, putting down his cupcake. He didn't want to eat; he was too depressed to eat.

"O-Oh it's the…hospital." She stuttered through the lie. "Turns out I'm needed now. I'm so sorry John, I have to leave."

"No, no it's fine, thank you for the cupcakes Molly."

She grinned before picking up her coat and rushing out of 221B to greet the detective; the doctor was left to his thoughts. His memories tortured him. After a while of thinking, he came to a decision and reached for a pen and paper…


	6. Sherlock's Return

"Hello, Sherlock!"

"Ah, Molly, take a seat."

"But why do you-"

"Sit."

Molly obeyed the detective who paced back and forth across the creaky wooden flooring.

"What are you-"

"Shhh…"

"Why?"

"I'm thinking."

Molly sat in silence as she watched Sherlock. It took five minutes of pacing before he broke the silence.

"John," He began, "how is he?" His beautiful eyes showed concern.

"John? But you haven't asked about John since-"

"Molly, answer the question instead of stating the obvious." He sighed, becoming impatient.

"S-Sorry." She looked down as she sensed the detective's frustration.

"I've trusted you with my life and you've helped me with my 'suicide'. Don't take my frustration personally. I owe you a lot, don't think I'd ever hurt you intentionally."

She smiled, looking into his ice blue eyes that were now melting at the thought of the army doctor. He continued to pace.

"Tell me about John."

"He's not doing too well, I'm afraid."

Sherlock's head snapped towards Molly. "Really?" his face revealed nothing but sadness, despite the fact that he needed John to be upset so Sherlock knew that he was still heartbroken. Molly nodded in response to the detective, remembering the doctor's tear stained face when she entered his flat.

He ran over towards the brown haired woman, crouching down in front of the armchair to meet her height. His eyes were now filled with hope, "is he in a relationship at the moment?"

"No, he hasn't been in one for years," she paused, thinking back to John's most recent relationship. "In fact he hasn't been in one since Christmas a few years ago, but his girlfriend broke up with him then because he was paying too much attention to you." A smile grew across Sherlock's face and his eyes lit up like lights on a Christmas tree. He kissed Molly's forehead in joy, causing her to blush a deep shade of crimson. "Brilliant!" He cried, "Oh, Molly! This is perfect!" The detective jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat before darting out of the house, leaving a rather astonished and confused Molly sitting in his armchair, processing how differently the dark haired man acted.

Sherlock ran down the pavement, using his signature scarf to hide his pale face from the public. Should he walk or should he take a taxi? No, he should walk, taking a taxi would mean too much time with the same person and so there is a possibility of them realising who he is, if he walked however, he could quickly walk past people and never see them again; a very small risk of being discovered there. What's more, Sherlock can plan how he will greet John, because it will be a longer journey. As the man walked down the street, questions began to flood his mind; questions which he couldn't really answer: How will John react to Sherlock coming back? Would he be happy or angry? Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of his doctor getting angry with him, should he even go? Or will he settle for seeing him through a window in 221B from afar? "No, I have to see him," Sherlock concluded "I love him…" He got goose bumps every time he thought or said that, he had only realised it that day, but it was the best thing that had happened to him. It brought warmth inside of him. He saw love as a disadvantage, despite that, he had never been happier; he was on a natural high. He had to confess his love to his doctor. He needed John Watson. Sherlock had a spring in his step, causing his inky curls to bounce freely around his face. He didn't care; the man was in love. Making his way to Baker Street, the man stopped in his tracks. Right in front of him was a shop; a flower shop. He entered it with a giant smile on his face. "Get me the biggest bouquet of red roses you have."

After a long walk, he made it to 221B Baker Street. It brought back so many memories; he smiled knowing he was going to make more. After knocking on the door, he felt extremely nauseated. Dizziness started to take over him from the anticipation of seeing John. The detective was bought back to reality when he heard a scream. "Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson cried as she opened the front door, turning as white as a ghost. The man put his finger over his mouth, signalling for her to be quiet and ran into the flat before anyone could see him. The poor woman was trembling as she stumbled up the stairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa. "I can't explain this at the moment, Mrs Hudson."

"Y-Y-You're alive…"

"Yes, yes I am. I'm so sorry" He stood up and pulled the woman into a hug, as she began to cry from both shock and happiness.

"Why would you do such a thing?" She sobbed.

"If Moriarty's assassins didn't see me jump, you, John and Molly would have been killed." He whispered, tears flooding his eyes and threatening to spill.

"I'm so glad you're back, Sherlock… I'm so glad you're back" She wept.

"So am I." Sherlock smiled, picking up a bouquet of lilies from the coffee table and giving them to her.

"Wha-What are these for?" She smiled through her teary eyes.

"Do you really expect me to return empty handed?" He chuckled.

"I wasn't expecting you to return at all! How…how did you survive?"

"It's a bit too complex to go into at the moment, I'll just say I had a bit of help from Molly" He smiled. "Where's John?" The detective asked, picking up the roses from the table.

"Oh he's gone out." The landlady replied, wiping her tears away with a tissue.

"Do you know when he will be back?"

"No, not really, he seemed quite upset so I assume he's gone for a walk, bless him, he told me about how I'm such a lovely person and gave me a big hug. The poor thing must be suffering" She gave the detective a weak smile "I'll just put these lilies in some water, thank you very much Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson then walked out of the flat, admiring the flowers.

Sherlock walked around the flat, inhaling the familiar scent of 221B. He walked over to his violin and started to play it, admiring the music he was making in his favourite place: 221B. He was home. A big grin came across his face as he walked over to his chair, violin still in hand. The detective sat down and played songs on the violin beautifully, loving the fact that his chair was comfortable; unlike his old one in that horrid abandoned house. Suddenly, something caught Sherlock's eye, something that made his heart sink, his stomach drop and his delicate violin crash to the floor. They were on John's armchair, quite a few of them, little envelopes with thin black ribbon tied around them. Each one addressed to different people: Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg, his friends from his workplace and even Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock felt nauseous as he picked up the envelope addressed to him. He knew exactly what they were. "Shit" He whispered as he started to panic and his heart began to beat out of his chest. He grabbed his coat and scarf before running out of the flat. "Mrs Hudson I'm going out!" He cried before opening the front door and catching a taxi. "There's only one place John will be…" Sherlock realised as he jumped into the taxi…


	7. Is This a Dream? Is this Real?

'This is it' John thought as he observed the ground below him; people were walking down the street with not a care in the world. They were happy. John envied them. Oh how he longed to be happy, to not be suffering with a broken heart. He stood on the ledge of the building; at the top of St. Bart's hospital. He was ready, ready to jump and leave the world the same way Sherlock did. The doctor reflected on the memories of his life; despite working incredibly hard to achieve what he had, with many years of medical school and risking his life to serve his country, the only thing John cared about was the years he had with Sherlock. When he watched his companion jump from St Bart's, John realised that the detective was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Now he was gone; and he took John's happiness with him. John had given up. He had given up on life. All he wanted was to be in his detective's embrace, to run his hands through his dark, messy curls and feel his warmth. He couldn't have that though. John couldn't have _him_. He missed his chance and that was the doctor's biggest regret. He had nothing else to live for, so what was the point in life? Just one jump. One jump, and it will all be over; all of his suffering would vanish. It was so tempting to John. Something stopped him from jumping though, he thought of everyone he knew and the most important people in his life: Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg, even his sister, Harry. If he went through with it, he would leave all of them behind; he would never see them again. They suffered with Sherlock's death, wasn't that enough without John falling to his? He had people that cared about him. Mrs Hudson and Molly were extremely supportive when they tried to help John recover from Sherlock's death, even today; Mrs Hudson brought John a cup of tea and called Molly for him who then gave him a box of cupcakes. Any person would be grateful and consider themselves cared for; John however was grateful, but found himself a burden. He believed that Mrs Hudson and Molly felt obliged to care for him so he would stop being so depressed. 'No wonder Molly dashed out of my flat today' John thought. "I'm pathetic." He whimpered, "I'm a pathetic heartbroken idiot." Tears began to roll down the doctor's face as he peered over the building. It was a long drop…

John was suddenly struck with heart palpations and beads of sweat rolling down his face as he continued to watch people innocently walk down the street. He became more and more weak with each breath, causing him to become light-headed, negatively impacting the man's balance. With a loud thud, the poor man-who was now hyperventilating- crashed backwards onto the solid concrete rooftop. His mind was spinning, his heart was racing, his vision was blurring. It wasn't difficult for the army doctor to diagnose his own symptoms, even in his helpless state. A panic attack; John was having a panic attack. "I-I can end this…I can end this now." The weak doctor stumbled onto the ledge of the roof. "Sherlock Holmes…I love you." Were the last words of the dizzy man who was eager to end his pain. He took a deep breath preparing himself for death, when a pair of strong arms grabbed the doctor by the waist and pulled him off the ledge and down onto the cold concrete. John retaliated, "let me go!" He cried, "Let me die!"

"Shhhh…You know I can't do that, John." A low, quiet and familiar voice immediately caught John's attention. His head was pulled onto his rescuer's lap and the man stroked the doctor's short blond hair. That voice. _His _voice. No, it can't be… can it? John inhaled deeply, only to smell an all too familiar cologne. Is this real? Is this a dream? Did John jump and is he now slipping away from life? No. The doctor continued to breathe in the sweet man's scent; it made him weak and numb. All of his pain that he had dealt with for 3 long years started to dissipate. John looked up to confirm his suspicion of the man that was still playing softly with the blond hair in his hands. Looking back at him was a face, consisting of nothing but concern and guilt, his perfect cupid bow lips were parted due to his heavy breathing. The man's eyes looked deeply and intently into John's; his irises were ice blue, whereas the rest of his eyes were pink. He had clearly been crying. The fact that his eyes were coated with his salty tears confirmed it. "John," Sherlock whispered, "I'm so sorry…"


	8. The Confession

John returned Sherlock's gaze, a look of astonishment upon his tear stained face. He stood up and stumbled backwards; slowly stepping away from the ledge until he was at least 6 feet away from the detective.

"Y-You are…how can…Sherlock?" The doctor was lost for words, rage boiled inside him. "Was this some sort of sick joke to you?! To see how far it would take me to break?! Do you even know what you did to me you selfish son of a bitch?" The detective stood there, speechless as he looked down to the ground, holding back tears. "I was going to _die_ Sherlock! You're a smart man, in fact, you're a genius! Surely you must know that I can't live without you!" After his outburst, John realised what he had said:_ he couldn't live without Sherlock_. John felt his blood rush to his cheeks, his face burning; John silently wished that Sherlock wouldn't notice his blushing face, even though he knew that he obviously would. Sherlock looked back at him, his mouth opened as if he was going to speak but he abruptly closed it. The two men stood in silence, their eyes locked on each other's for what seemed like an eternity, until John started to deduce the detective, after all, he did learn from the best. He started with Sherlock's shoes, perfectly polished and by the shine which reflected his face -that was in deep concentration- like a mirror, they were recently polished. 'He could have been going out and wanted to make a good impression,' John thought. Next, his clothing. Dark shades, most likely used to make his figure appear slimmer. His smart trousers fit him perfectly and they seem to be made from a high quality material, Italian wool maybe? Then his shirt, oh his shirt; John had to take notice of his balance because the man in front of him slowly flooded his nervous system with anaesthesia. His legs threatened to give in to the doctor's weight and he could feel his face burning to a deeper shade of crimson. The shirt that Sherlock was wearing was the one that John had always admired; it was a deep shade of plum and the tight fabric stretched across his torso, revealing his muscular figure and his pale skin between the buttons that were close to popping open. This man was obviously dressed to impress. Over his clothes was his famous overcoat, it was undone and the thick fabric circling his thighs was blowing in the soft breeze. The detective's hands tugged onto the edges of his coat; they were slightly trembling; it was either due to nervousness or anticipation. The collar of his coat was turned up and his well-known scarf was wrapped around it, hugging Sherlock's neck. He was clearly cold, but then again, who wasn't cold in London? It was winter after all...

The doctor moved up to Sherlock's beautiful face. It was perfectly sculpted and subtle shadows rested beneath the man's cheekbones. Big seductive eyes of crystal blue ice were no longer pink, but still watery, showing that he had cried recently. His lips that were shaped into a perfect cupid bow revealed an amused smirk. Shit, he knew what John was doing. John had deduced the great Sherlock Holmes though. He tried to hide his grin of satisfaction; not just from the deduction, but from the fact that John realised why Sherlock was so well dressed and why he was acting so differently. Why else wouldn't he react to John's statement?

"John," The detective began in an unstable voice, "If you're going to hit me, can you at least give me a warning so I can brace myse-"

Sherlock was cut off with John running up to him and taking him into his embrace, causing Sherlock to fall back in the process. It was painful as they hit the cold floor, but the two men didn't care. The pain was numb to them. The army doctor wrapped his arms tighter round Sherlock's neck. "I've missed you…I've missed you so much, Sherlock" He whispered. The detective returned the affection that John was giving by holding him just as tight, as if John was a bag of diamonds that Sherlock admired oh so dearly. They lay on the floor, tangled together due to Sherlock being caught off guard, until Sherlock rested his weight on his left arm and held John with the other. "John…I…" The detective paused and decided to show his sentiments through actions instead of his words. He leaned closer to John, their faces inches apart. John could feel the warm, sweet breath of the detective on his face, it sent shivers through his body, it was as if he was struck with a bolt of lightning. John rested his forehead onto Sherlock's; his heart was now racing and his thoughts quickly became cloudy. There was a connection between them that wasn't there before; it was as if they could make love just by gazing intently into each other's eyes. Sherlock gently placed his lips against the doctors; there was no lust, just passion and admiration. John parted his mouth, providing access for the detective who willingly took it to his advantage and deepened the kiss. They eventually parted, breathless and panting; their eyes still locked onto each others. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." whispered John.


	9. Let The Games Begin

Winter slowly engulfed the city of London; there was a bitter chill in the air while water vapour condensed on the windows of 221B. The living room was heated with a blazing fire; it crackled softly as it ate away the wood in the fire place. The fast flickering flames were reflected on the eyes of a consulting detective. He was sat on the sofa, a case file in hand. John had replaced Sherlock's job at Scotland Yard for the past three years as he was the only person who knew the technique of Sherlock's great deducting skills (despite the fact he was nowhere near as good), so Sherlock was thrilled when he returned back to his old home to find a large pile of case files in the kitchen.

"I'm impressed, John." Sherlock flicked through John's work as the man himself walked into the dimly lit room, carrying a tray. He placed the tray on the coffee table; two cups of tea, surrounded by chocolate digestives were in the middle of it. "Thank you." John smiled. The doctor took a biscuit and dipped it in his tea before biting a chunk out of it, reclining in his armchair and watching the man opposite him observe the files. He looked so engrossed in his work; it was as if he never left. John knew it wasn't like that though. Everything was completely different. The man sighed. Sherlock changed his position; he sat with his legs crossed and rested his chin on the tips of his hands that were now placed together. John knew what he was doing; he was in his mind palace. Three minutes passed. "Tell me, John."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me what's wrong."

John hesitated, "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, John, you know it won't work."

The doctor remained silent which caused Sherlock's eyes to snap open; his face revealed his concern. "Please."

"What makes you think something's wrong?" John replied, trying to avoid answering Sherlock's question.

Sherlock smirked. "Is that a joke? Your sigh was blatantly obvious. Now tell me…please."

"You can't act like nothing has happened, Sherlock."

It was now Sherlock who remained silent.

"Sherlock!"

"What do you propose?"

"We talk this through."

"Fine."

The two men talked for hours on end. At first, their conversation consisted of nothing but yelling. _"You put me through hell, Sherlock! I was suicidal!"_ "For_ goodness sake John! I did it to save your life!" _ Eventually their argument simmered down; Sherlock apologised, as did John. They declared their forgiveness with a tender kiss. Being the man he is, Sherlock knew what John wanted to talk about next: how the hell did he survive the fall? The detective explained to John his method to surviving the jump, along with the full quoted speech between him and Moriarty and every single detail about what happened at the top of St. Bart's. He also explained how Molly helped with his brilliant plan while the blond just stared in amazement. Afterwards, John talked about his life over the time Sherlock left; he gleefully talked about his completed cases, how he was respected by Scotland Yard and about his part time job at the hospital to get a bit of extra money. Knowing Sherlock would be upset to hear it, the doctor missed out his stories about his depression. Sherlock informed Scotland Yard of his return while John told everyone he could about the same thing. Naturally, everyone was in shock which the detective found amusing. John couldn't have been happier to announce his friend's return, he couldn't have been happier to be with Sherlock, he couldn't have been happier watching the man he loved argue with Anderson down the phone about a recent case that apparently Sherlock saw earlier that morning.

"So…" John began, not really knowing how he was going to ask his question. He caught Sherlock's attention as he ended his call with Anderson; he looked quite pleased with himself. "So what?" He finally responded.

"So what's going to happen? About us I mean…" for some reason, John was anxious to hear the man's response. A mischievous grin spread across Sherlock's lips as he slowly made his way over to John. He took the doctor's hand in both of his and kissed it softly, he rested his forehead on John's. "I want to have a bit of fun." He whispered.

"Oh really?" John couldn't help but smile at the detective's seductive behaviour. "What idea is spinning in that brilliant mind of yours then?" He locked his eyes onto the man's opposite.

"Let's keep it quiet now, John," Sherlock returned John's loving gaze, "don't make it too obvious, I want it to be a game for us." His voice was low and deep.

"And how would that be a game for us?" John asked, intrigued.

"You'll see," he chuckled, "whoever cracks first, loses." Sherlock trailed his fingers gently up the side of John's neck, sending shivers down his spine.

"Being all secretive are we?" John smiled, not caring about his accelerating heart or sweating hands, it's not like Sherlock wouldn't have noticed anyway. "What happens when one of us loses?"

The detective tried (but failed) to hide his grin of amusement. "Oh, that can't be said yet, Dr. Watson." He punctuated his reply with a wink.

John's heart skipped a beat. "Alright," he smiled, "let the games begin."


	10. The Shopping Trip

Days had passed since the announcement of Sherlock's 'resurrection' and naturally, the man was high in demand. The couple in 221B were constantly harassed by the constant knocks on their door by the fans and a flood of letters by the media on the hunt for an interview. Sherlock and his doctor were getting extremely frustrated due to their lack of privacy.

John's face popped up from the top of the novel he was reading. "Sherlock, you need to give in."

"Why should I?" The detective objected.

"Because we're out of milk. I can barely get out of the front door without being caught in a swarm of your little fans! Just do one. One interview and they will go."

Sherlock slumped into his chair and closed his eyes. "Uh, effort."

The doctor dropped his book and quietly crouched in front of Sherlock's armchair. "Sherlock," the man himself opened his eyes, rather startled to find John's face inches from his. "Please." John whispered.

In response, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John could clearly see a flurry of thoughts whirling around the detective's brilliant mind. Sherlock's eyes suddenly sparkled; a glint of mischief shone through them. "Fine." He finally replied.

John stared in astonishment "really?"

"I won't do an interview, but we will go shopping together."

The doctor suddenly became confused. "But you never go shopping."

A smile grew on Sherlock's lips; he swung his legs over the crouching doctor and then jumped off the side of the armchair before retrieving his overcoat and scarf off the door and wrapping them both around him. "I do now."

After fighting their way through the manipulate media, the consulting duo entered the shop.

"I need nicotine patches, John."

"I bought you some a couple of days ago."

"I need more."

John sighed as he scanned the medical isle in search for the specific brand of nicotine patches that Sherlock always uses; that is, until he felt the brush of a cool hand at the bottom of his neck. This cool sensation slowly-but gently- ran up his neck until it reached the nape of it, resulting in shivers as shocking as lightning running through his spine.

"Sh-Sherlock." A short, sharp breath escaped John's mouth, his breathing becoming very uneven.

"Mmm?"

"What are you…urm" The doctor's mind suddenly turned blank and vacant, A flood of words were spinning out of control in his mind, making it difficult for him to find the right ones to say. "What are you doi-"

His words were ceased by strong yet firm arms gripping him at the shoulders and quickly spinning him away from the trolley to meet a familiar pair of manipulative eyes.

"Are you okay, John?" The detective asked; a look of seduction was spread across his face. His eyes were full of lust. "You look a bit…tense." His deep voice became even deeper, close to a whisper.

Something was extracted from John's mind (which currently resembled a centrifuge). It was a sudden need for Sherlock; the doctor yearned for the contact of the raven haired, pale faced man in front of him, and so in response, John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and hastily pulled him close. Disappointment ran through John as instead of warm, moist lips, he felt a slender finger meet his mouth.

"I wouldn't do that, John," The man looked up in confusion; he had the eyes of a lost puppy. "You'll lose."

Understanding washed away John's look of confusion. "Oh, I see…" John smiled, "don't worry, Sherlock, I won't lose."

"Oh really?" The detective's voice consisted of sarcasm, "Because I think you nearly just did."

"Well being the sneaky arse you are, you didn't tell me the rules did you? Just you wait, Holmes, soon you'll be on your knees begging for me to kiss you."

"Would that be the only reason I will be on my knees…captain?" The man's voice was once again reduced to a deep whisper and with that he gave the now blushing John a rare mischievous wink that resulted in his heart fluttering, his knees weakening and his mind becoming cloudy.

"I think I should pay for the shopping, John. We wouldn't want another replay of you shouting abuse at the chip and pin machine." Sherlock tried to hide his smirk behind his scarf.

"I thought we were never going to speak of it again!" John chuckled "It wasn't even my fault anyway, it was this blasted contraption; it never works."

"Oh really?" Sherlock looked intrigued as he approached the self check out machine.

"Yes, in fact, maybe I should do it since I don't think you've ever used it before and they can sometimes be quite stubborn to-"

"Thank you for your purchase." Sounded a female robotic voice from the self check out machine.

Sherlock turned to John with a rather smug grin plastered on his face. "You were saying?"

"Beginners luck." John remarked as the couple exited the shop, bags in hand.


	11. I Can't Thank You Enough

"Sherlock?" John called as he stumbled down the stairs of the flat. "Sherlock!"

The doctor slammed the door of the living room open with so much force that he significantly weakened the hinges. It was 4'o clock in the morning, but considering the fact that his detective didn't sleep often, John decided to check the kitchen for Sherlock. It was empty. Well the living room was out of the question, John had already checked as he ran through to the kitchen; John decided to look in the bathroom. He was ceased by violent coughing coming from behind the bedroom door as he walked past it.

John quickly entered without bothering to knock to find a man sprawled across the bed; his skin was as white as his sheet- which was now hanging off the edge of his bed- and the room smelled vile. The doctor slowly crouched beside Sherlock's face; in response, the suffering man opened his eyes. His light eyes that appeared so bright and full of wisdom were now dull, almost lifeless. John had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable. The doctor gently rested the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead to measure his temperature before analysing his other symptoms. "How do you feel, Sherlock?"

"My choice of words may be offensive." He mumbled.

"Do you have a headache?" Sherlock nodded.

"Are you achy? Do you have a sore throat?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Both." Sherlock croaked. John could clearly see that the detective didn't want to talk, the poor man began to shiver, despite his alarmingly high temperature. A dry cough escaped his chapped lips.

John cursed quietly after diagnosing Sherlock's illness as he made his way to the bathroom. He returned shortly after with a flannel soaked in water as cold as the snow that shimmered on the rooftops of London. John brushed away sweat-soaked curls sticking to Sherlock's forehead and replaced them with the flannel, intensifying Sherlock's shivers.

"Looks like you have the flu..." John remarked as he tracked the man's temperature. Sherlock remained silent. "Don't be ridiculous, John. " The now dissipating fever restored strength in his voice. "If I'm that ill I can't work. I can't have that happen. What I have, is a mere cold."

"Sherlock, as brilliant as you are," a blush coloured the detective's pale face, "I think we should trust the _doctor_ with this one."

"How do you know it isn't just a bad cold?" Replied the stubborn Sherlock, determined not to give in.

"Do you not watch the news?"

"Pfft, the news is useless, whenever a crime has been announced, Scotland Yard embarrass themselves with their appalling observations."

John tried to hide his grin as he watched Sherlock rant. "Well if you _did _watch the news, you would know about the flu epidemic that is going on at the moment."

"Did you not hear me, John? The news is useless. It's always wrong."

John sighed in defeat. "At least let me look after you."

"Why would you need to? I only have a cold."

"Why would I need to?" John echoed, "do you know the time? It's 4 in the morning! Your coughing and sneezing woke me up, from _upstairs! _ If you don't think that's bad, I dread to think what your idea of bad is!"

For the first time in years, Sherlock was left speechless. John had the last word. Then again, how could the detective have the last word with that response? The only person who could leave him lost for words was Mycroft; but he has the Holmes gene, he too is a genius and therefore has the ability to outsmart him...occasionally. Sherlock would have been frustrated if anyone else had done it, but because it was John, Sherlock was left impressed.

Days had passed and John noticed how Sherlock was giving in to the fact that he had the flu; the detective finally admitted he had it when it peaked on the third day, resulting in the man being humiliated. Not only because he was wrong, but because he didn't like John seeing him in such a vulnerable state. The man constantly had nine words circling his brain: 'This wasn't the man John fell in love with'. He fell for a strong, mysterious independent man...didn't he? Well Sherlock was convinced that he did; and because of that, he tried his absolute best to reject medications and fluids that were vital for his recovery. He was sure that it would make him appear strong and independent. These actions lead to a very frustrated-and concerned- John.

"Sherlock, please drink something. Anything." John pleaded.

"I don't need to, John."

"Yes you do! It will take much longer to recover without something flushing the toxins from your body!"

Sherlock weakly lifted his arm and lightly tapped his temple. "The power of the mind will help me, John. You're a doctor, you should know that an optimistic view helps recovery dramatically."

"I don't care, Sherlock. What I _do_ care about is that fact that you haven't had a drink since yesterday!" John removed the damp flannel off of Sherlock's forehead and dropped it in a bowl of cold water on the bedside table. He then crouched beside Sherlock with desperation in his eyes. "Please... for me." Sherlock stared at the doctor as he came to a decision. He groaned and rolled over, shoving a pillow over his head.

"Fine." Replied a muffled voice from beneath the pillow. "Just one."

Relief flowed through the doctor as he swiftly made his way to the kitchen.

After days of suffering, Sherlock regained enough strength to drag himself to his armchair; much to John's delight.

"I can't thank you enough, John."

"Really? Why is that?"

"You didn't give up on me; you stayed by my side and you've done your best to support me. I thank you for that, John Watson."

"Well I couldn't have given up on you could I?" John chuckled, "How could I let the person closest to me suffer with the flu?"

Sherlock looked up at the doctor across from him who was now sipping from his coffee mug. Their eyes locked onto one another's and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"I wasn't just talking about my illness John."

"Oh," John replied, unsure on what to say next.

"You really haven't changed much," Sherlock chuckled, which quickly transitioned into a dry cough. The man awkwardly cleared his throat before continuing, "You're still the same man I met in St. Bart's years ago." The detective smiled at the memory; John then mirrored the detective. "Well I can't say the same for you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow to appear intrigued but behind that mask were the same nine words that echoed in his mind for days, they constantly orbited the detective's complex mind. Anticipation and nerves engulfed his senses. He was anxious for John to elaborate on his statement.

"How so?" Sherlock's voice cracked as he eventually asked the question.

"Hm?" John stopped drowning his taste buds with his coffee to process Sherlock's question. "Oh, well you're..." He paused. "Well you're a lot more open now. You're not as much as a dick anymore," he joked which caused Sherlock to plaster a fake look of amusement across his face to cover his pain. "Oh, and you're a lot more sentimental." John continued, earning a grimace from Sherlock. "That's not a bad thing though!"

Sherlock looked up confused. "It's not?"

"Of course, you idiot! Do you know how long I've had feelings for you? It was long enough. With the exception of the times you treated me as a friend, which wasn't very common; you were mainly emotionless, like a robot. Do you know how that made me feel?" He kept his eyes locked with the silent Sherlock's. "It made me feel worthless."

"John..." Sherlock began, filled with guilt. "I-"

"And now you've changed." John interrupted. "You've shown me happiness, you've shown me friendship...you've shown me love; because of that, I have to say the same."

"What?" Sherlock asked, rather confused.

" I can't thank you enough, Sherlock Holmes."

A grin spread across the two men's faces while relief washed the anticipation out of the raven haired man. John stood up and made his way over to Sherlock before planting a kiss on his forehead and draping a blanket over him.

"Get some sleep."


	12. The Job Offer

Sherlock's violin playing was interrupted with the sound of John groaning. The detective turned from the window to observe John; messy hair, dull puffy eyes and a dressing gown wrapped around him revealed that he had just awoke.

Sherlock masked his smile by placing the violin back under his chin and continued to play

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John asks, admiring the music coming from the talented man in front of him.

"If you wouldn't mind." Replied a quiet voice, "So what's wrong?"

"Hm?"

"Well you clearly had a restless sleep."

"Oh, yeah well..." The doctor's sentence trailed off.

"John?"

John threw himself into his chair letting out a deep sigh. "Listen, I'm sorry but...well it turns out I have an offer to go to Ireland for a month."

"By who?" Sherlock's voice suddenly became tense.

"A medical school; somewhere northern." John stood up and slowly stepped towards Sherlock. "Thanks to your fame I've been recognised, I've been asked to train medical students." Sherlock listened silently, staring at the doctor; observing his every detail, watching his every movement. "Yeah I'm not sure I'm going to take the offer though."

"Why?"

"Well as much as a great opportunity it is and we need the money from it, I don't want to leave you..."

"There's no way of me coming with you?"

The blond shook his head, "The rooms, food and water is limited. I've already asked Sherlock, I'm sorry." Sherlock nodded in response, still drinking up the doctor with his icy eyes which were now beginning to melt. He was tearing up. "But don't worry," John continued, "I'm not going to take it, I couldn't do th-" The doctor's speech was cut off with warm, moist lips against his own, the pressure was soft; delicate. John's strength completely dissipated into the floor beneath him as the detective's mouth was experimenting with his; the blond struggled to keep himself up. Sherlock detected this by the limp body he was now holding, despite the strong kiss that was being returned, and so he pushed John into his armchair and wrapped his legs around his doctor's waist; not separating their lips in the process. The detective didn't do this for lust, he _needed _John. The couple continued to experiment, to search one another until they began to lack in oxygen, resulting in Sherlock creating a gap between them, gasping breathlessly; leaving a very disappointed John beneath him. They sat there for what seemed like hours, waiting for their breathing to regulate as they listened to the strong, fast heartbeats that filled the silent room.

Eventually, the detective placed his forehead on John's. "Take the offer, you idiot."

John looked into his eyes, confused. "What?"

"You heard me." Replied a voice which consisted of pain.

"I can't leave you, Sherlock."

"When are you going to get this opportunity again? It's a good experience, it's good money and I can clearly tell that you want to go."

"I do want to go," John confirmed, "but not without you."

"Listen, Lestrade's offered me a case this morning while you were asleep, it requires a fair bit of travel, you wouldn't see much of me, even if you had, well...you know what I'm like when I'm in my mind palace, anti-social and irritable. You should take a break from my behaviour and enjoy yourself, it's the best time to do it in fact."

"Sherlock, I can't do-"

"Oh for goodness sake, John take the opportunity! Please? Do it. For me." John remained quiet "We need the money anyway," Sherlock struggled a weak smile, "when are you supposed to leave?"

"If I accept-"

"When you accept."

"I would leave in 2 days."

Sadness quickly flashed through the detective's eyes before he masked it with a cheeky smile. "Well, doctor, I think you need to make up for the time you're gone."

"Oh do I now?" John replied, returning the smile.

"Yes, and that's an order." Sherlock's voice was deep and seductive; before he could reply, John had his head cupped in slender pale hands as the detective began to kiss him passionately.


	13. A Lazy Night In

It was 4 o'clock. Late afternoon. A glowing sun was resting just over the horizon; it made days seem shorter in the winter because of this. John was wearing his thick cream jumper which effectively shielded him from the frost-bitten cold, he walked into the lounge with two steaming cups of tea in hand to find the detective draped in his dressing gown as he lay across his armchair. John let out a deep sigh as he turned on the television, "I don't want to leave you, Sherlock." he mumbled as he placed Sherlock's tea on the coffee table. He slumped into his own chair, watching Sherlock scan through the contents of his case folder that Lestrade had given him that morning; his face was engulfed by a mop of inky curls. It was 20 seconds later that the detective decided to respond. "Did you say something?" his curls gracefully bounced as he jerked up his head. John should have expected to lack Sherlock's attention when he was in deep thought, how stupid of him. John shook his head, not wanting to bring his emotions into his partner's work. The detective nodded in response and lay on his back; his legs were tucked to his stomach and his hands were together, resting on his chin. His hair was hanging over the arm of the chair. John could do nothing but watch and ache, for the doctor knew that in less than 48 hours, he wouldn't witness the detective's behaviour for a month. He debated on whether to continue watching Sherlock and make the most of it before he leaves or to stop torturing himself and turn to the television. He eventually found himself staring at the television screen; but he only focused on the detective's blurry silhouette out of the corner of his eye. 'Positive. Think positive. It's just a month' he told himself. The more he thought about the opportunity he was given, the greater it seemed. The only negative thought that practically crushed him was the fact that while he will be there, he will have the world's only consulting detective's absence. Why couldn't he just solve the case? That way they can spend as much time together as possible before John's departure. Just as if Sherlock read his mind, he gave a loud exaggerated sigh. "My goodness!"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, that was so incredibly _easy, _John! It's like Scotland Yard isn't even trying anymore!" He tossed the folder into the air before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

"Oh," John replied, "you only started that case 10 minutes ago. I was expecting you to take longer." He endeavoured to hide his smile.

"That's my _point_! If they're going to give me a case, they could at least give me something that will give me a _bit _of brain stimulation!" His slender fingers tapped away on his phone as he texted Lestrade. He aggressively shoved the phone back into his pocket shortly after.

The doctor silently stared at Sherlock who was now pacing from the kitchen door to his desk repeatedly. 3 minutes passed before the detective sighed and collapsed into his armchair; he locked eyes with John.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"You know why, John."

"Yeah, well..." John's sentence trailed off as it also just occurred to him that he won't be under Sherlock's observant eyes for a month. Sherlock obviously noticed this and stood up before holding out his hand for John. He willingly took it as Sherlock pulled him up to his feet. The detective held him tight; just like when they reunited at the top of 's. His arms were like a shield to John, that protected him from his negative thoughts; that numbed the pain from his aching heart. He embraced the warmth of the taller man that penetrated his rigid muscles; he inhaled his scent. It was a mixture of his spicy cologne that was partially masked with the scent of disinfectant from the lab. Despite the struggle, John successfully held back his tears and sighed deeply into Sherlock's dressing gown. "The month is going to fly by, don't worry." Sherlock's voice was deep and quiet. It bordered onto a whisper. John could only nod into the detective's chest, not trusting his voice that was most likely thick with the tears that he held back. "I'm not telling you to go to hurt you, John, I'm telling you to go because I know you want to."

"Mmmm" John acknowledged Sherlock's statement. He pulled away as he began to regain confidence in his voice. "I would object due to obvious reasons, but then again, who am I to argue with the world's only consulting detective?" A smile finally started to grow on his lips.

...

John was now in between Sherlock's legs as they sat together on John's armchair, they spent the last two hours watching television. The doctor occasionally flinched as Sherlock randomly shouted at the screen, telling the inanimate object that it's not possible for the person on the screen to be the murderer, the way he matches his shirt with his shoes was the 'obvious' giveaway, apparently. John couldn't give a damn about what was on the television though, what he focused on was the warm embrace around his torso, the slender thighs surrounding his body. His heart was racing, his palms were sweating and his pupils were dilated, no doubt. He knew the man shouting at the screen was fully aware, but was thankful that he was 'distracted' by the plot in the TV show, instead of bringing up his arousal and embarrassing the blond.

"Hmmm..." Sherlock's chin rested atop of John's head, causing his deep voice to vibrate through John's skull.

"What is it now?" John laughed, "Not sure whether Sally's sleeping with Jim because she's changed her lipstick?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. She's sleeping with Pete because she's wearing that necklace! Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Replied the rather smug detective.

John let out a soft chuckle. "What is it then?"

"I...I kind of like Pete's moustache." He answered, rather shyly.

"Hey!" The doctor playfully elbowed Sherlock's torso.

"Oh, don't worry, John, you're still the best man for me." Sherlock insisted, trying to hold back laughter over John's jealousy.

"I better be, Holmes."

John shuffled around and swung his legs over the arm of the chair. He turned to see Sherlock's amused expression, causing him to blush, earning an even larger smile off of the detective. Sherlock leant an inch forward before planting a soft kiss on John's lips.

"You are."


	14. Don't Go, John

'1 day left.' That was the first thing that came into John's head the second he awoke. He grumbled into his pillow that was soaked with body heat. "Shit."

Melodic music filled the lounge of 221B. "Morning." John's voice was thick with sleep. The raven-haired man was stood in front of the window; he focused intently on the stand which held his sheet music. Despite his deep concentration, the melody came effortlessly. The music however, was interrupted when Sherlock turned to face John. "John, I'm glad to see you've had a more restful sleep."

"So am I." John smiled weakly.

"Have you packed yet?" John suddenly paused; memories of the night before flooded back to him as his consciousness continued to heighten.

"I didn't go to bed last night."

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed, "you didn't."

"Why did I wake up in my bed then?"

"Because I put you there." Sherlock answered nonchalantly. "You fell asleep when we were watching television; after discovering that you were an _incredibly_ heavy sleeper, I decided to carry you up. The whole situation was a bit risky though."

"How so?" John asked, slightly embarrassed.

"I walked down and found Mrs Hudson in our fridge, well, not _in _our fridge but..." John smiled at the detective's choice of words. He couldn't help but think of the severed head that was in there at the moment. "She was taking back the jam that you apparently borrowed."

"And that was risky because...?"

"If I had decided to take you up a few minutes later, or if she came in a few minutes earlier," Sherlock tried to suppress his smile of amusement, "she would have found us snuggled up on the armchair, with you snoring in between my legs-"

"I don't snore." John interjected.

"You do."

"I don't."

"I believe you do, John."

Instead of defending himself, the doctor just simply gave Sherlock an apologetic smile, to which he chuckled. "Don't worry, it's cute."

"_Cute?_ Sherlock, I'm an army doctor, I've been wounded in Afghanistan, I've killed people. I am not cute." Despite his words, John could feel a blush creeping up his neck.

"Have you finished packing yet?" Sherlock asked again. John sighed and shook his head.

"I plan on doing it this evening."

"Isn't it more logical to do it now and get it over and done with? That way you won't stress about it for the whole day."

"I suppose so," John shrugged as he turned towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"I'd love some."

John decided to take the detective's advice. After handing Sherlock his tea, he slowly trudged up the stairs. His mug in his hand swayed as he climbed each step, causing tea to trickle down the side of the mug. John dreaded it; packing. It was so mundane. It was so tedious, and yet, it was also so stressful.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reading a book as he sat in his armchair: 'Top Ten Infamous Serial Killers'. Every now and then, a faint smile of amusement grew across his lips; not because of the brilliant techniques of the cunning killers, but because he heard John crashing around upstairs, occasionally cursing when weighing his suitcase, only to find that it was too heavy. It took 35 minutes of John's anger before Sherlock began to find himself becoming frustrated. He dropped his book into his lap and reclined back into his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the noise.

"Do you know what's wrong with him, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway; she too, looked rather agitated.

"He's packing." Sherlock interjected.

"Packing? For what?"

"He's going to Ireland tomorrow to teach medical students for a month." The detective couldn't be more relieved that he was a remarkable actor, for his emotions would have revealed his pain.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson appeared to be delighted. "How nice! This will open a lot more doors for him!"

His acting skills failed him. He was filled with horror. "Yes. It will won't it?" Sherlock tried his best to mask his face with enthusiasm.

"Were you actually planning on telling me then?"

"Apologies." The detective forced a fake smile. "It's all been a bit hectic, he only found out about it yesterday."

"Awww, the poor thing. I hate packing too. It must be so stressful for him, especially considering its last minute." As if on cue to the landlady's statement, there was another crash from upstairs. Then there was a pause; it became silent. Sherlock hoped it wasn't so quiet that his heart palpitations (that had just kicked in) could be heard.

"Hmmm." The landlady finally broke the silence. "I think I'll make him a cuppa. Would you like one, Sherlock?" The man gave an abrupt nod in response before she left the room. It was like she never left though; her voice was as clear as a bell as her all too true statement fluttered over and over in Sherlock's mind. His panic was induced with every lap that the sentence made around his brain. 'This can open a lot more doors for him!" He despised the optimistic tone of voice which came with those words. Sherlock waited; deep breaths came from his lips as he tried to compose himself. Since when did he get heart palpitations? He glanced at his watch: 12:17 PM. John had been silent for 4 minutes. "He's tiring." he said to himself, a weak smile on his mouth. Swiftly exiting the room, the detective made his way up the stairs...

John heard 3 brief knocks on his dark wooden door. "Come in." His fatigued voice revealed his frustration. He endeavoured to hide the grin on his face when he saw a tall, pale and familiar figure in his doorway.

"Nearly done?" Sherlock asked.

"Nearly," John sighed. "I'm 4 kilograms over the limit though."

"_4 kilos?_"

"Unfortunately."

"Does that make you the girl in our relationship then?" Sherlock smirked, as did John.

"Hey," The blond objected. "You need a lot of things for a month."

"Hmmm...okay" They both knew that Sherlock didn't agree.

"Just because you wear the same type of thin clothing every day doesn't mean everyone else does, you need a lot of things for a month." John repeated.

"Your case is only over the limit because you've packed so many jumpers." The detective gestured towards the suitcase which was overflowing with woollen jumpers. John had no defence for his companions statement.

"Yeah I know." He grumbled.

"I mean for god's sake, wear one, wash it, wear it again." Sherlock sat himself on John's bed, beside another mountain of jumpers. He smiled. "Here's what I propose." He caught the doctor's attention. "It's now..." He looked at his watch. "12:23, I believe we should go for lunch. Afterwards, we go out."

"Go out where?"

"Anywhere. And then we come back and I will help you pack."

"What happened to getting it over and done with?"

"What happened to making up for the time you will be gone?" Sherlock smiled.

"A valid point." John grinned as he got up and pulled his coat from the hook of his door. "Let's go."

Soft sunlight danced off of the window's of Angelo's . As the couple approached the restaurant, they saw Angelo's gleeful face in the window before the door swung open moments later. "Sherlock!" The man pulled him into a hug. "I haven't seen you in ages!" He glanced at John and his smile grew. "I see you've bought your date."

"I'm not his-" John stopped himself as he thought it through; he didn't know how to react. Yes, he was indeed Sherlock's date, but they were keeping their relationship secret; they were playing a game. He regretted cutting off his sentence almost immediately though, as he realised that his pause had just revealed their relationship to Angelo. He felt guilty, Sherlock wanted to play a game, he wanted to keep themselves secret. Had he lost? He looked up at Sherlock, a smile was at the corner of his mouth. Shit.

"Everything for you and your date is free, as always." He winked at John, who was mentally kicking himself for his little slip up. Angelo clearly liked it though, it was clear as crystal by his ever-growing smile. He believed they were together ever since day one though; because of that, the fact that he knew about their relationship was not a huge issue for the deducing duo. Sherlock took Angelo's knowledge to his advantage and guided John into the restaurant, his hand at the small of his back. Thankfully, the building was extremely quiet and nobody even looked up at the couple. As they walked, their bodies were centimetres apart. Angelo overtook them and guided them to a dark corner. He grabbed a candle off of a nearby shelf on his way. Shadows engulfed the surroundings, making it almost seem like it was night; but as Angelo lit the candle, the shadows dissolved and replacing them, was a warm glow which caressed the table. The golden light sparkled on empty wine glasses that were rested on the tablecloth.

"The usual?" He asked.

"Please." Sherlock answered as he placed his coat on the back of his chair.

"Don't worry, you haven't lost." Sherlock broke the silence when Angelo practically skipped away.

"How?" John asked confused. "I gave us away."

"You lose the game when you give into temptation." The detective winked. "And let's be honest, Angelo knew about us before we even did." John laughed at Sherlock's statement before the man they spoke of returned with plates in his hands. Spaghetti bolognaise was placed in front of John as Sherlock was given a light salad. Angelo just stood there, clearly gleeful on his knowledge that his ship had become canon. He wanted to witness every single event between the two but Sherlock tried his best to dismiss him politely. "That will be it...thank you"

"Enjoy." He smiled as he slowly walked away, glancing behind his shoulder every few seonds.

Silence filled the air; it was unusually awkward for John. He looked up at Sherlock, his food was pushed aside and his chin was rested on his hands. He appeared to be taking in John's every feature, his every movement. The blond found it difficult to look up at Sherlock as he felt exposed under the man's observant eyes. He drew his attention to his food by twirling the spaghetti around his fork, over and over again, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Look at me John." The doctor obeyed; it was surprisingly easier than he expected; and once he looked up, he instantly regretted avoiding the man's eyes. His regular cold eyes that he normally saw were surprisingly warm; his icy irises had melted into warm pools of light blue liquid. The liquid flooded into his eyes. Sherlock Holmes was tearing up. Naturally, John was immediately concerned. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you ok-"

"Don't go, John."


	15. The Departure

John was stunned. Almost speechless. "Wha-you...Sherlock!" The doctor's face was crumpled in confusion. "You were the person who told me to go!" Sherlock didn't move; his eyes were still locked on John. "You were the person who convinced me to go, and now less than 24 hours before, you change your mind?" The detective opened his mouth before abruptly closing it. This earned a frustrated sigh off of John. "Look, Sherlock, I've already confirmed my stay there, the food is planned, my room is set up and loads of money has been spent on my accommodation and printing sheets for my lessons. I can't just back out now; it's too late." John watched ebony curls engulf Sherlock's face as he bowed his head down to his hands. "What's happened, Sherlock? Why don't you want me to go?" Sherlock hesitated before answering, something that is unlike him. He tapped a random beat on the surface of the table with his fingers. He was thinking for a suitable answer that didn't make him seem as selfish as he was being. The fact that he won't be with John for a month sent his stomach plummeting; his heart to his throat. Every time he imagined waking up to an empty flat with not a doctor in sight, he had to hold back tears. Mrs Hudson couldn't be more right: this opportunity will open doors. Behind these doors will be even more opportunities, more trips, more time away from each other. It hurt. There was always the option of going with him to other ones, but it would be very limited in places other than London to work. It would be difficult to solve cases without talking them through with Lestrade in person. Sherlock wouldn't be able to see crime scenes in real life, making them more difficult to observe, more difficult to deduce and more difficult to solve. He was fully aware of his selfishness; he didn't care though. Seeing John after 3 years made Sherlock discover that life was just dull, mundane and uneventful without his trusty blond by his side. He wanted as much time physically possible with John.

"Sherlock?" John halted his racing mind.

"I'll miss you." The detective replied honestly. He was then given a sympathetic smile. John reached across the table to put his hand over Sherlock's. He gripped tightly.

"I will too; but trust me, the month will just fly by-"

"It will for you."

"And you too," John insisted. "This will be good for both of us, Sherlock. We'll get money, you'll get some peace and I will get more opportunities-"

Sherlock sighed irritably. "That's why I don't want you to go!"

"What?" John looked hurt. "Oh, so you don't want me to have good job opportunities, you don't want me to progress...what's wrong with you? You don't want be to be happy, Sherlock? Is that it?"

At that point, Sherlock lost it. He didn't care how selfish he sounded. "Yes, John. That's exactly it." He raised his voice slightly. "In all honesty, I don't want you to spend time away from me. I can see exactly what's going to happen! You're just going to become more and more known and higher in demand. You will meet more people, more people will want to meet you and guess what, John? I may even end up with competition!"

John stared at the man in front of him in disbelief. "Oh don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm not! Take it from the superior mind!"

Anger now simmered in John. "Listen, I have to put up with your shit every day, you pompous arse! Surely the fact that I'm still here shows that I care about you, otherwise I'd be with someone else right now!"

Sherlock was now the one who was hurt. In fact, 'hurt' was an understatement. "Well fine! Go! Have a nice break from my shit! And yeah, clearly I'm your whole world if you refer to me as a pompous arse!" John immediately regretted letting his anger take control. The rage got too much for him; he needed to leave before he did something else he regretted. He needed to cool down. The doctor aggressively pushed his chair backwards and stood up before storming towards the door of the restaurant.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm going to finish packing!" John yelled, more harshly than intended.

"You left your coat at Angelo's." Sherlock tossed the coat onto John's bed.

"Thank you." The doctor replied as Sherlock turned to leave. "Sherlock, wait."

The man remained silent; he didn't turn to face the guilty blond. His only acknowledgement was stopping in his tracks.

"I'm sorry for what happened."

"Oh no, it's fine." Sherlock replied icily, "You were just angry. You lost control."

"Yes," John confirmed. "It was wrong and I'm sorr-"

"I mean I can't blame you, it must be easy to be angered when you're constantly around my pompous nature."

"Sherlock-"

"It's fine John!" He called as he made his way downstairs. John could easily decipher the pain and anger in the detective's voice. Most people couldn't; Sherlock would sound blank to them. Emotionless. John however was the only exception; most of the time, he could read Sherlock's emotions as easily as he could read a book.

"I thought you two were going out," Mrs Hudson was dusting the shelves of 221B as she spoke to a rather emotionally confused detective. "Did you have another domestic?" Sherlock grunted in response, trying to concentrate on his book. _Sentiment_. The man scowled. _It weakens you; hurts you._ Just like how John hurt him. _Lack of concentration. Anger. Pain. Oh how love was a disadvantage._ Sherlock hated the impact it had on him. He could barely read without being distracted, he certainly couldn't solve a case. Isolation. _That's what I need. Isolation to compose myself._ John's departure was the perfect opportunity to help the detective calm down. Despite the fact that Sherlock absolutely despised the thought of John gone for a while, he knew it would be for the best; for both of them. Yes, he was still selfish and yes, he wanted John Watson all to himself, but that obviously wasn't going to happen. He tried to block the desire in his mind because of this; the anger which blinded his heart helped. Unfortunately, he knew that it wasn't going to last and a few days later he will yearn for the doctor, suffer with his broken heart after the anger dissipates through his silent tears. The detective oh so desperately wanted to eliminate John's hurtful words from his brain but it seemed impossible. Sentiment was like a shield; an encryption on a file that could not possibly be deleted without access. Sherlock lay back in defeat after Mrs Hudson left. He finally let his tears spill...Late afternoon eventually struck; the horizon began to glow softly as the sun dipped behind it. Despite the warm sun softening the features in the lounge, the air was cruel, bitter and icy. John had finally finished packing and Sherlock was fully aware of it. There was no more cursing and no more crashing from above. One would think he was now relaxing, if there weren't rhythmic thumps through the thin ceiling. What the raven-haired man below could hear as he stared into the hungry fireplace, was anxious pacing. He sighed, trying to convince himself that he shouldn't feel guilty for putting John in this position. Sherlock knew of his compulsive nature and the fact that he was selfish; he also knew that many people disliked him for that. John was the only person he trusted, the only person who would willingly protect Sherlock. The fact that he said those hurtful words in Angelo's made Sherlock believe that John deserved a bit of guilt. He couldn't shake of his own though, for making John upset angry and confused. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair as each nervous step through the ceiling made him feel worse. After what felt like hours, the pacing stopped, much to Sherlock's relief. Minutes later he turned his head to a familiar voice which caught his attention. "Sherlock." John was stood in the doorway; he manipulated his posture by straightening his back to make him appear more confident. His arms were folded-a sign of defence. In addition, John was unaware of his foot which was subtly tapping on the carpet, revealing that his confident and strong body language was created to mask his truly nervous state. "Hello, John." The detective's voice now sounded exhausted

"Would you like dinner?"

"No, thank you."

"Ok..."John paused. "Sherlock," the man responded with an exaggerated sigh. "I know I shouldn't have lost my temper and insulted you, but you're not the only one who's been hurt." Sherlock looked up. "You were being selfish, Sherlock. You weren't happy for me, in fact, you didn't want me to have any success." The detective nodded sharply before getting to his feet and walking over to the window. Water vapour had condensed on the glass due to the contrast of the freezing air outside and the heated room. "That's it then?" anger once again grew within John.

"What else do you want me to do, John?"

The doctor scoffed. "Apologise, for a start!"

"Sometimes apologies don't fix things."

"No," John agreed. "But it shows that the person actually _cares_."

"So why haven't you?" Sherlock retorted sharply. "You and I both know that you haven't come down here to apologise, you've come down here to try and put some of your guilt on me."

"I-I" John was left speechless. "That's not true."

"Do you know what I think, John?" The man spun around to face the doctor.

"I don't know, Sherlock, what do you think?" John's voice had turned cold.

"I think you don't want to apologise! You felt good to reveal what you thought of me, didn't you?"

"Oh, don't be stupid! I was angry! I was upset and confused so naturally I would want to say something to cause a bit of defence!"

"But you didn't have to think, John. Those word flowed from your mouth as swiftly as water down a river. You didn't _need_ to think of those insults because you've already thought it. You didn't need to think about it; you didn't make it up."

"Sherlock...I-"

"It's fine, John." A hint of sarcasm in his voice. "It's not like I haven't had offensive remarks thrown at me before. I've become used to it."

John felt sick as he was flooded with shame. He understood now; he understood why the brilliant Sherlock Holmes who normally doesn't let anything bother him seemed so pained at John's words. Besides Mrs. Hudson, John was all Sherlock had. Of course he had Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft as well, but they weren't as trustworthy. They weren't as loving. They provided help but never praise and appreciation like John did. They never protected him from verbal abuse from others; John however took those hurtful words and turned them into positive ones while giving Sherlock sympathy and praise for being so unique. Sherlock always appreciated it when John described him as special and his deductions as 'brilliant' or 'outstanding' and every other positive adjective under the sun. John was his loving shield; his only protection. By offending Sherlock that afternoon, John may have made Sherlock lose a bit of hope and trust in him. Suddenly John saw Sherlock in a different light. Vulnerable; almost child-like.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Really, I am..." The lovely inky curls that John admired bounced as Sherlock subtly nodded his head. He avoided John's eye contact entirely.

"Goodnight, John." His voice was close to a pained whisper. He reached for his violin beside him and started gliding his bow across it's strings.

_'How do you feel about the violin?'_

_'...Sorry?'_

_'I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't speak for days on end..'_

The memory was so vivid, it made John smile. He admired the melody before leaving the man to his privacy. He obviously wanted time to think. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

The next morning, John gave Mrs Hudson a warm goodbye. Sherlock watched out of the window as John walked down the street; he endeavoured to compose himself but he was failing. As he watched John walk up to a taxi, suitcase in hand, tears began to blur his vision. John glanced over his shoulder before getting in; he looked in the window to see Sherlock, clutching an envelope in his hands that was slipped under his door minutes before...


	16. The Trip, The Letter and The Visitor

As John stepped out of that glossy ebony door, his stomach plummeted, not only because he didn't want to leave Sherlock, but because he was excited. Both of his emotions were conflicted and he didn't know which was winning. As his emotions battled, he caught a taxi before throwing in his suitcase. John paused before getting in. He couldn't help but look round his shoulder to see whether Sherlock was there. A silhouette was stood in the window, the sunlight masked all of the features on the figure but John knew exactly who it was. Everything seemed to have stopped in those few seconds. It was just the two of them; no one else. Nothing else.

"Are you gettin' in mate?" The taxi driver was growing impatient.

John jerked. "Oh, yes, sorry." And seconds later, the taxi was driving away...

Familiar buildings zoomed past John's eyesight. He couldn't help but think of the first time he got into a taxi with Sherlock, being amazed at the man's remarkable skill. The doctor slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He brought it up to eye level and scanned the screen; the same scratches as before...

'_Your phone is expensive-email enabled, mp3 player. You're looking for a flat share. You wouldn't waste your money on this, it's a gift then. Scratches: not one of them, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already.'_

_'The engraving.'_

_'Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you have an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment; expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. It looks like it's been given to you recently; this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on and he's just giving it away? If she would have left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment; but no he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help. That says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking.'_

_'How can you possibly know about the drinking'_

John turned the phone over in his hand to view the power connection.

'_Shot in the dark, good one though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.'_

John smiled at the memory.

"You got a girl mate?" John glanced up to see the taxi driver looking at him through the rear view mirror.

"Oh, um no." John flushed red. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been doing this job for years, I've seen plenty of different people in my life and I know when I see the smile of someone in love."

"Oh..." John couldn't help but chuckle.

"So I'm right then?"

"You could say that..." John replied, his cheeks on fire.

Sherlock sighed deeply as he threw himself into his armchair; he stared at the note in his hand. It didn't take long for him to notice it beneath the door, as John left minutes later. He inspected the envelope: This envelope was relatively new, not a crease or mark in sight. John had used a black ball point pen-shown by a little smudge on the letter S written on it. Clearly the pen has been used on the envelope first then, as John went to write, the ink that had pooled at the bottom of the pen flooded out as it reached the paper. John had then quickly rubbed the ink away with a tissue so it wouldn't seep through to the back of it, causing it to smudge. Very neatly written-too neat for John to write this letter with little care- was the word 'Sherlock'. The detective turned the envelope over to open it, only to find that it was sealed. This was odd as John is not one to lick the seal adhesive, he normally tucks the seal in so people can open it more easily; because of this, the fact that John has sealed it reveals that he will want to know whether Sherlock did open his letter or not, and because Sherlock is a remarkable liar, the doctor knew that the only way to truly know, is to seal it. Sherlock gave in to temptation and retrieved his letter knife that was stabbed into the frame of the fireplace and quickly sliced the envelope open. He tilted it; the letter slid out...

After an exhausting and tedious journey through the airport customs, John was relieved to sit down and relax until he needed to board his plane. Much to his delight, he discovered that he only went over his suitcase limit by 0.2 kilograms, causing him to avoid the fine that he was expecting. John looked at his surroundings: Costa, Boots, Starbucks, Burger king etc. all wanting to bleed everyone dry with their ridiculous prices. John couldn't blame them though, it was obvious that people would take food and drink on their flight, and because their drinks were taken off them in customs why not raise the price to get more money? He decided to go along with it as he was becoming parched and bought an overpriced coffee from Costa. Sitting on a faux leather sofa in the restaurant, John began to think. His jigging knee revealed the nervousness of his idea. It took a while of mental debating, but eventually, John gave in. He pulled out of the phone out of his pocket: Messages. Compose. Sherlock Holmes...

'Just about to board. I'll miss you-JW'

John was fully aware that he didn't really deserve a reply but he still had hope. He decided to send another; he was becoming desperate and he was eager to show Sherlock how much he cared for him.

'I love you, Sherlock-JW'

_*buzz buzz*_

John unlocked his phone faster than what he thought was physically possible.

'Take care, I will miss you too- SH'

John's heart sank. Perhaps he was being paranoid but Sherlock was (surprisingly) the first one to express his love. Now when John expresses his, he doesn't get any in return? Did John really hurt him _that_ badl-

_*buzz buzz*_

'I love you too, John-SH'

John couldn't help the beaming smile which grew across his lips. Sherlock's read the letter then, John must have gained back some of his trust. For the first time in days, John couldn't be happier.

Through the speakers of the airport, John was notified that his plane was ready to board...

The paper was not white, but a soft cream. It was neatly folded; not a millimetre over the edge. With a deep breath, Sherlock unfolded the letter...

'_Sherlock,_

_It has taken time for me to realise what had caused you to be so bitter with me, and now that I know, I don't blame you. I just want you to know that I did not mean what I said, it was the anger talking; I was just confused, I didn't think anything through. I understand though, that I have lost quite a bit of your trust, that I am the army hero who normally protects you and failed. I deeply apologise. You are the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, surely you must know that the harm inflicted on you was completely unintentional and that I would never want to do anything to hurt you. Well, of course you know, why wouldn't you? You were just angry too, confused like I was. We have both made mistakes, let's not make another. I can't possibly stay mad at you and I no longer am; hopefully you will do the same because we both know that I can't live without you. Unfortunately we have proof of that, but you've saved me, you've confessed your love for me and I've done the same. I thought then, that I couldn't love you more, but I was clearly wrong, my love for you grows more and more each day. Sherlock, I feel incredibly guilty; I just want your trust back. Your affection. Your love. I made a mistake; we all do. I will miss you, this trip will be worth it though and we both know that. I am happy with my decision to go, I just hope you're happy for me too, because your smile is what causes most of my happiness._

_All my love, _

_John.'_

Sherlock didn't know what to do; he didn't know what to think. All he could do was just read the letter, over and over again. As his eyes scanned letter, he started to feel a bit dizzy, the more he read the letter and memorised its words, the smile on his lips grew larger. "John." He was interrupted by the text alert of his phone. Sherlock assumed it would be Lestrade. Sherlock sighed irritably as he made his way towards his desk. He would normally be happy to receive a text from Lestrade as it meant that he had a new case to solve, but the text had interrupted the trance that Sherlock was in, the trance which made him forget everything in existence, except his doctor. He unlocked his phone.

'1 message from John Watson'

The detective's heart skipped a beat as he read that sentence on his phone. He couldn't be more happy to know he was wrong. "John." He repeated through a warm smile.

'Just about to board. I'll miss you-JW'

Sherlock suddenly felt warmth engulf his body as he read that message; well, a certain part of the message: I'll miss you.

"Take care, I will miss you too-SH' as he sent his reply, Sherlock's phone vibrated. Another text from John.

'I love you, Sherlock-JW'

The detective chuckled at the message. He was overwhelmed with happiness.

'I love you too, John-SH'

The flight to Ireland was mundane. John tried to pass the time with a book and couldn't be more relieved when the plane finally landed. After retrieving his suitcase, he walked over to a man standing with a large sign in his hands. Written on it was 'John Watson'.

"I'm John Watson." The doctor stated as he walked up to the man. The Irishman was tall and a bit chubby. His hair was light brown and he wore square framed glasses. On the top of his lip was a thick brown moustache. 'Sherlock would like that' John thought, trying not to smirk.

"Oh hiya, you alright?"

"Yes thanks, you?"

"I am," he smiled. "So you're the new teacher?"

"Yes, only temporary though."

"Oh I know." The man started walking towards the exit, signalling for John to follow. "Yes, the old one's fallen ill; got the flu quite badly. It's a shame, he's a nice guy."

John just nodded as he followed the man. "My names Brian by the way."

"Oh okay, hi, Brian." John pulled out his phone.

'Arrived safely-JW'

John had followed Brian to a black mini in the airport car park. "Yeah sorry," Brian said in his thick Irish accent. "I know it's not much, but it does the job." He took the suitcase from John's hand and threw it in the back seat before getting in. John felt his phone vibrate as he got in.

'Glad to hear it-SH'

John smiled. "So do you work for the university too, Brian?"

"Yes, I'm a receptionist there. That's why _I've _ been given the job to fetch you."

"Oh okay." John still stared at the text, warmth growing inside him...

It was mid- November now, Christmas was slowly approaching. Mrs Hudson was trying to fight the cold with hot cups of tea; she gave Sherlock 4 cups that day. Sherlock was on the phone to Lestrade when she came up again, cup of tea in hand. Sherlock covered the microphone of his iphone with his hand when she tried to give it to him. "Thank you, but don't make me anymore now." He was growing sick of the tea. A Brit can only have so much tea in one day. He uncovered the phone and continued to speak. There was a case about a woman who was found dead in an alley way, no sign of injury.

"Sherlock-"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson, I'm busy."

"But Sherlock-"

"I need to solve this case, see me later." Sherlock was becoming irritable.

"You have a-"

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Brother, dear..."

Sherlock froze, all that could be heard in the room was Lestrade's small voice from the phone. The detective quickly spun towards the door, he groaned.

"You have a visitor." The landlady finally said before putting Sherlock's tea on his desk and leaving.

"Mycroft, now's not a good time." Sherlock stated icily.

Mycroft didn't reply, he just sat in John's chair. Sherlock could feel anger simmering inside him. "Sit in my chair." He commanded through gritted teeth.

"Well you appear to be in a _marvellous _mood. Please, sit and relax, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed before hanging up Lestrade, without even any notice. "Well that was a bit rude." Mycroft's voice seemed a bit mocking, he knew it would annoy his brother.

"So is coming into someone's flat uninvited." Sherlock gestured towards his armchair and Mycroft finally followed it. "Thank you." The detective sat in the chair opposite his own, it felt weird, out of place, but Sherlock preferred it to his annoying brother sitting in something that was John's. That was another thing sentiment did, it made you irrationally protective over certain things. Sherlock sighed. "So what do you want?"

"I wanted to see you."

"No you didn't." Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Hmmm okay, maybe I didn't"

"What _do_ you want then?"

"As you are aware, I am a man of many duties and I am compelled to do my very best to please people."

"You want to make yourself look good, in other words." Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft glared at him.

"I have been told that you are wanted, Sherlock."

"By whom?"

"Think, genius." Mycroft's voice had become stern.

"Oh well many people could want me Mycroft, you need to be more specific in what field this person is in."

"Who would want you the most, Sherlock?"

The first person who came to mind was John, a faint smile escaped his lips, causing Mycroft to sigh. "No, Sherlock, not John. Try again." The detective would have been surprised at his brother's knowledge of his relationship if Mycroft wasn't practically the British government with his cameras and eyes around every inch of England.

"Well, Molly wants me too." Sherlock teased. "Tell me Mycroft, how many people want _you?_"

Mycroft was becoming more and more irritated in his brothers presence. He did not come over to be mocked by his younger sibling.

"You know I know who it is, Mycroft."

"Yes, so I find your immature manner unnecessary."

"Lighten up." Sherlock taunted.

"Grow up." Mycroft growled.

There was a long silence. Mycroft was endeavouring to compose himself as Sherlock was deciding how far he would test him.

"So how's the diet going?"

"Well, thank you." The elder forced a smile.

"Oh I don't think so." Sherlock smirked.

"I have not visited so you can insult me, Sherlock!"

"I know you haven't."

"So why are you being so ridiculous?"

"It amuses me." Sherlock gave a mocking smile. "When does she want to see me?"

"Any time. You don't even have to _see_ her, just call her, text her, email her. Just give her some proof that you're still alive! You haven't spoken to her at all since your _oh so dramatic _resurrection."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Now if you excuse me, I was in the middle of discussing a case."

"Oh that reminds me..." Mycroft pulled another letter out of his pocket. "Here's another."

Sherlock was now intrigued. Two cases in one day? He felt like it was his birthday. The detective reclined in John's chair, inhaling his familiar scent as the soft cushions embraced him. "Thank you." Sherlock held out his hand, waiting for the letter to be placed in it. Mycroft didn't bother to argue, as much as he hated it, he needed his brother to solve this case as he was too busy to do so himself. He placed the letter in his brother's hand. As Sherlock read through it, the elder waited in anticipation. "Fine." Sherlock eventually said. "I'll take the case." Mycroft tried to form the most realistic smile he could. "Marvellous."

"So this...Peter Wright, he was found dead in his living room. Is this all you have? Can I see the room? Or any room in his house?"

"The great Sherlock Holmes? Asking for more evidence? What has the world come to?" Mycroft's voice oozed with sarcasm.

"Don't be so over dramatic, Mycroft. The images here are appalling and nothing of _any_ significance has been taken. Who even took these? Anderson?"

Mycroft was silent. "God, help me..." Sherlock sighed. "So can I?"

"Fine." His voice had turned cold. He stood up and headed towards the door. "I shall text you the details, you will be able to take it from there." Sherlock gave an approving nod.

"Has your argument simmered down between you and John?" There was conspicuous amusement in his voice.

"Yes, Mycroft. It has." Sherlock's voice was bitter. He gave his brother a clearly fake smile as he opened the door for him.

"Really? That was fast. Although I can't really blame you two for your little dispute, you being so bothersome and all. I'm surprised John hadn't been sent to a mental asylum after you got together." Sherlock glared at his brother, the anger within him now boiling. "Oh don't be so _dramatic_, Sherlock. It was supposed to be whimsical."

"Well I don't appear to be humoured. Now, Lestrade has been waiting long enough, I suggest you leave."

Mycroft complied and Sherlock couldn't be happier to watch his brother leave his flat.

"Don't forget to call her." The elder said sternly. Sherlock acknowledged his brother with a brief nod.

"Keep trying with that diet, Mycroft! I'm sure you'll get there!" Sherlock called down the stairs to his brother.

"Keep trying to lose your virginity, Sherlock! I'm sure you'll get there!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he closed the door. He reached into his pocket and dialled a number he hadn't called in years.

"Hello, mummy..."

John had just walked into his hotel room when his phone rang; it was Brian who was now back in his workplace: the reception. John was given details on his job, the exact location of the university he will be working at and what will be in his lectures during his time there. He flung himself onto his bed when the phone call ended, despite the fact that the journey wasn't really that long, he was exhausted.

The month was going relatively quickly, much to Sherlock and John's delight. Sherlock kept harassing Scotland Yard for more cases and when they didn't have any, he was planning John's Christmas present. There was no better time to get it, considering John was away. They didn't text very often, as the two were very busy, but it was clear that Sherlock forgave John. Sometimes John was distracted during his lectures when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, only because Sherlock was the first one who came to mind when that happened, this lead to a bit of stuttering and even forgetfulness on some occasions, but thankfully his students didn't mind. He had built himself quite a good reputation while he was there and was quite enjoying himself; the students seemed to like him too. He was touched when a couple of girls stayed behind one time, commending him on his teaching and wishing that he could stay longer. The money that he knew he would be getting at the end of the month was just a bonus. The doctor was actually surprised when he looked at his calendar, only to discover he had one week left. The month had flown by...


	17. The Reunion

**Chapter 17:**

It was dusk. Light was just peeking over the horizon when Sherlock burst into the living room of 221B, he was gleeful as he jumped, clutching a small black box in his hand. The man threw it into the air, watching it spin and then resting safely back in his protective palm. "Are you alright, dear?" Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson enter the room. "You were making quite a racket!" The man skipped over to her before holding her by the shoulders and kissing her forehead. "I couldn't be better." He beamed, "you wouldn't happen to have any purple wrapping paper would you?"

In John's last week, he was shocked to discover how many admirers he had; after each lesson he taught, a couple of students stayed behind, explaining how much of a better teacher he was and how they would miss him when he left, they sometimes gave him gifts, such as chocolates or maybe a book. Of course there were a few students who acted coldly towards him, but John was expecting it. What universities didn't have a few troublemakers? The staff were also very friendly towards him, someone always spoke to him in the staffroom and they looked intrigued when the doctor spoke about his adventures with Sherlock. Quite often during the time John was there, the students tried to move him off topic so he can talk about the cases he and Sherlock had solved. This started when John had only been teaching for a couple of days.

He had finished his last lecture for that day and everybody in the room was leaving. The paperwork in John's briefcase spilled out though, as he made his way towards the door; this earned a few laughs from the students leaving. He fell to the floor with an agitated sigh, he was clumsily shoving his paper back into the briefcase when a young man crouched by his side and started to help him.

"I wouldn't trust the cases they give you here, Dr. Watson, they are probably older than this building."

"Oh, I'll keep that in mind," John paused, "what's your name?"

"Edward." the lad answered, his eyes fixed on the sheets of paper on the floor.

"Thank you for helping me, Edward. It's very kind of you."

"No problem." he replied, placing the last of the sheets into the case. "Buy a new one."

The doctor laughed, "I will."  
They both headed towards the door when they heard a loud buzzing sound from behind them. John looked over his shoulder, only to find a familiar phone, screen down on the floor.

"Is that yours?" Edward asked as he walked over to pick it up.

"Oh, yes. I must have dropped it when I went to pick up the papers." He felt sick at the thought that he nearly left his phone in the room, anyone could have found it. Anyone could discover his and Sherlock's relationship. Edward walked back to him, inspecting the phone for any cracks or significant damage when the phone vibrated again, the student couldn't help but notice the name on the now brightly lit screen. He looked up at his teacher in bewilderment. "Y-you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," John replied proudly.

"But he's like, famous! He came back from the dead! He is practically the smartest man alive! Oh my God! How do you know him?"

John couldn't help but chuckle at the student's enthusiasm. "Would you believe that he's my flatmate?" He smiled.

"Watson!" The student cried. "I wondered why your name was so familiar! You're him! You're John Watson!" This was strange for John, Sherlock was normally the one who was in the centre of attention, because of this, John felt like a celebrity. His smile grew. "Oh my God! You're awesome! I love your blog, especially The Speckled Blonde, that was amazing!"

"Thank you," John laughed, "sorry, but I have some more work to do, have a good evening."

"And you Dr. Watson!"

Since then, John was constantly harassed by curious students, he found it rather amusing.

Before he knew it, it was his last day, naturally, most of the people at the university were upset, they took it quite well though. During his last lesson of teaching, John thought about how much skill he had developed throughout the month: he had more confidence, he learned how to move distracting things to the back of his mind (thanks to Sherlock who didn't text often, but when he did, he seemed to time it precisely in the middle of John's lessons) and his social skills had improved, the only person who he really spoke with now was either Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford or Sherlock, so to meet new people and to get to know them was quite beneficial. He had no regrets with his decision to take this job offer, sending his detective the occasional text had made the whole experience better than he had expected.

It wasn't until he finished saying his warm goodbyes (and writing autographs) to countless amounts of students and staff when John started to feel excited, in less than 24 hours he will be reunited with Sherlock Holmes. As a bonus, the detective had forgiven him; nothing made John happier than the thought of being in Sherlock's loving embrace when he walked into the living room of 221B. The doctor made his way to the reception to say a final goodbye to Brian and to collect his hard earned money before he left the university for the last time...

"Maybe John should go more often." Mrs Hudson joked as she watched Sherlock practically sprint around the flat.

"What? Why?" Sherlock was confused, hurt with the thought of John leaving him again.

"I've never seen you so eager to clean!" she laughed. Sherlock had spent the whole day tidying up, dusting and polishing for John's arrival. He felt sick with anticipation. Sherlock looked at the land lady, her hands were full with shopping bags.

"Marvellous, thank you for doing that for me." He had given Mrs Hudson all of the money from his wallet that morning and asked her to get a much food as she could carry, as the cupboards and fridge were bare. "Not a problem, dear." She replied as she walked into the kitchen and dumped the heavy bags on the table, "would you like me to cook anything?"

Sherlock paused. "No, it's alright, you've done enough of my jobs for today," he started to wipe the mirror clean, "in fact, I will unpack the shopping bags too; if you want to do something, you can make me a cup of tea."

"Are you sure you don't want me to put the food away?" the landlady asked as she turned on the kettle.

Sherlock hid his growing smile. "Positive."

After Mrs Hudson left, the raven-haired man decided that the room couldn't possibly be any cleaner. As he sipped his tea, he observed the contents in the kitchen (Mrs Hudson decided to take the food out of the bags while she let the kettle boil). A few ingredients caught his eye, spaghetti, bolognaise sauce and something that made him worry that the landlady knew about his and John's relationship: red wine. He soon dismissed the thought as everyone knew that John liked a good drink when he's had a stressful day. As Sherlock started to put the food away, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket before it chimed happily.

'Just boarding-JW'

Despite the excitement that just rushed through the detective, he was worried that he wouldn't get everything ready in time. There was no way that Sherlock was going to put the mountains of food away, dispose of the severed head in the fridge, and cook a romantic meal in one hour. First, he needed to get rid of the head, he took a sample of the saliva from the head before pulling a biohazard bag out from a draw behind him. _Tick. Tick. Tick. _He threw the heavy bag out of the window and hoped it would land beside Mrs Hudson's bins; he didn't have time to go down the stairs and do it. _Tick. Tick. Tick. _The kitchen soon smelled of strong disinfectant, every single window and door in the flat was open to diffuse the scent which burned Sherlock's eyes while he scrubbed away at the fridge's interior. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ John had sent that text at 8'o clock; it was now 8:30 and the food hadn't even been put away yet. John's plane would land at around 9'o clock and it would take 20 minutes to get to the airport. "Mrs Hudson!"

Moments later, the landlady was in the kitchen, complaining of the strong scent. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

"I'm running out of time, I need to get a cab in 10 minutes and the food needs putting away." He threw the nearly empty bottle of disinfectant away. "Can you help me?"

"I offered to do that!"

"I know, I thought I had time to do it myself." Mrs Hudson could clearly see the stress on the detective's face, it was very rare for him to express this much emotion. She gave in and took the right side of the kitchen while Sherlock took the left.

10 minutes later Sherlock wrapped his coat and scarf around himself. "Would you mind finishing off?"

"Not a problem, dear, it won't take much longer."

"You're brilliant. Thank you."

Within seconds, Sherlock had sprinted down the stairs and ran out of the building. He caught a taxi drivers attention and jumped into the vehicle. "London airport please." he commanded as he pulled out his phone and dialled. "Angelo, I need you to do me a favour..."

Another mundane flight, then again what flights weren't mundane? The only thing that kept John happy was the thought of Sherlock. He was excited to see the detective's face for the first time in 4 weeks, John wondered how Sherlock would react when he saw the little treat that he had planned for him, when meeting Brian, it reminded John about Sherlock's admiration for moustaches, because he wouldn't see Sherlock for a month, it was the perfect opportunity to grow one. The doctor felt sick with anticipation. The plane rumbled aggressively as the wheels of the plane made contact with the ground of London; a wide smile escaped John's lips. He couldn't be more relieved to know that the flight was over. As he walked through the exit of the plane, he shivered. The frost-bitten air cut John to the bone, the thought of Sherlock's warm embrace couldn't sound more appealing. He swiftly made his way to luggage claim, his teeth beginning to chatter, why hadn't he bought a thicker coat with him? As John walked towards the conveyor belt, he scanned it for his suitcase; he couldn't find it anywhere; shit. As he continued to wait, he became more and more impatient; more and more worried. The crowd around the luggage claim began to disperse after 15 minutes and John was still left empty handed. 'Brilliant,' he thought, 'they've lost my suitcase.' He eventually turned around to leave, he was too cold to wait any longer and John was keen to give Ryanair a strongly worded phone call. The doctor stopped in his tracks though; he suddenly found his suitcase in the hands of a very tall, slim figure

. As John and Sherlock's eyes met, the room was empty. Nothing existed except the two men. When their eyes locked, the two were suddenly paralysed. Sherlock took this to his advantage by deducing his partner: John's eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were heavy, he was tired and stressed from the journey, John had always hated flights. His facial expression, however, was quite different. His eyebrows were raised and his mouth was open, revealing his surprise to see Sherlock. the corners of his open mouth were turned up though, he was smiling. Even though he had expected that, Sherlock was relieved that John was joyous to see him, the detective felt warmth rush through him. Wait, what's that? Was this another thing to get him to forgive John? Above his smiling lips was a soft-looking, dark blond moustache. Sherlock endeavoured to hide his smile of amusement with his scarf that was wrapped tightly around his neck. Sherlock then scanned his eyes over John's body, his arms were folded, he was either defensive or cold, cold was most likely, it was winter after all. The blond was also shivering. Yes, definitely cold. The detective snapped himself out of his deductions and sprinted over to John, dropping his suitcase in the process. He pulled the doctor into his warm embrace, gripping him tightly as if he was worried that if he let go, he would never see John again. Sherlock felt the blonds' muscles relax under his tight cuddle. The detective pulled back slightly and gazed into John's eyes, his vision was blurred as he blinked away tears of happiness. "Don't you _ever_ leave me again, John Watson." His voice was deep and low, close to a whisper. John was speechless, he could barely move, all he could do was nod before Sherlock gently tilted his chin up with his slender hand and caressed John's lips with his own; the kiss was gentle but passionate. "I love you too much."


	18. Their First Time

Sherlock had barely changed; his pale face still glowed softly in the bright moonlight. The man's piercing eyes were still an icy pale blue as they gazed intently into John's. John observed Sherlock who was sitting next to him in the London cab on the way to Baker Street. Only one thing about him had changed in John's absence; his figure, it was much slimmer. Sherlock clearly hadn't been eating much as he waited for his doctor to return, as a consequence, he had lost all the weight that John helped him put on after his 'return from the dead' as most people called it. Guilt suddenly engulfed John's paralysed body as he continued to stare at the man beside him. His guilt was soon replaced with content though as he watched the silky ebony curls that hung freely across Sherlock's forehead bounce as the taxi went over a speed bump. He stifled a chuckle. He was aware of his love for Sherlock, but on that ride back to the flat, after a month of not seeing him, John was finally certain that this was how he wanted to spend the rest of his life: to constantly be in the detective's presence and to have moments like this, where they don't need to talk, their eyes do all of the talking as they drink in each other.

After a 20 minute journey which seemed like only 5 minutes, the consulting duo were stood in front of a well known jet black, glossy door which held the address '221B'. The metal plates shimmered every time it caught the glow from the headlights of cars as they drove past. John watched as Sherlock hastily searched his pockets for the key. As a bitter breeze passed him, the doctor wrapped Sherlock's overcoat around himself tighter. He will never forget the concerned yet caring look the detective gave him at the airport as he swiftly took off his overcoat and draped it around John to keep him warm. One of the rare selfless acts that Sherlock had done for John. John inhaled deeply, the familiar aroma of Sherlock filled his lungs: Spicy cologne and a bit of lab disinfectant. The blond was snapped out of his thoughts as he heard the door unlock. Mrs Hudson quickly ran down the hallway to greet the two before pulling John into a tight hug. "Lovely to have you back!"

"Glad to be back." John smiled softly.

"Would you like a cuppa?"

"No he wouldn't." Sherlock quickly responded before John could even think of an answer, earning a rather confused look off him and Mrs Hudson.

"_Actually_," John finally answered, "I would love-"

"No you wouldn't. Come on, John; I'll help you unpack."

Suddenly, the doctor was pulled by his arm as Sherlock ran up the stairs...

Sherlock stopped in front of the door, hesitating to open it. "Sherlock?" John began, "are you oka-" He was abruptly cut off as Sherlock pulled John into a kiss. This wasn't like the one they had shared at the airport; it was certainly passionate, but it was also desperate. John moaned softly into the kiss as his fingers gradually found themselves entwined in Sherlock's curls. Just as it began to get more heated, Sherlock pulled away. "Mrs Hudson could come up at any moment, sorry." The detective smirked as he opened the door. As John peered through the doorway his jaw dropped at the sight of the living room. The room was immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight and not an item misplaced; this was not the reason John was so astounded though. The lights were off but the room was filled with a warm golden glow from the roaring fireplace and the candles which were scattered around its surroundings. Flickering flames from the candles that were lined up along the frame of the fireplace lit up the glistening mirror behind them. John speechlessly stepped into the room, he inhaled deeply at the familiar scent of the flat which had a subtle undertone of vanilla and cinnamon from the burning candles. "Sherlock...this is-"

"Shhhh." Sherlock gently pulled his coat off of John and hung it on the door before guiding the doctor to the kitchen. The usual smell of rotting flesh and bacterium in Petri dishes was replaced with the irresistible aroma of spaghetti bolognaise and garlic bread. Red wine was resting at the side of the table beside two glasses which glistened in the candle light which filled the kitchen as well as the living room. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk; he didn't realise that Angelo would take the meal _this_ far. Nevertheless, the scenery was still breathtaking. The detective gestured for the stunned John to sit; he willingly obliged.

"Sherlock, what you've done here," John twirled the spaghetti around his fork, "is absolutely incredible."

Sherlock smiled as he also started to eat. He was famished. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had a meal, he had a mince pie a few days ago, but that was it. John's absence had significantly reduced his appetite. "Really?" he chuckled, "it's not too cheesy then?"

"No, it is." John opened the bottle of the red wine and began to pour it into both his and Sherlock's glasses. "I wouldn't ask for anything less though, since when does Sherlock Holmes, the man who expresses little emotion-well except towards me- put together a meal and atmosphere like _this?" _

"I've had a bit of help." Sherlock admitted.

"Really? Off whom?

"Angelo; who else would cook an Italian meal?" Sherlock teased, "No wait, who else would fill a room with _this_ many candles?"

John laughed as he continued to eat. "Thank you." His voice was soft and appreciative.

Sherlock looked up at John. The golden glow softened the features of the doctors face, there was a gentle smile at his lips as he took a sip of the wine. His eyes were soft and warm, no longer bloodshot, nor fatigued, they were instead, filled with admiration. "You're welcome." Sherlock replied.

The detective bombarded John with what seemed like hundreds of questions throughout their meal; about how the lessons he taught were, how he was treated, the reputation he had etc. after every question that John answered, Sherlock came up with a new one. He spoke for hours as Sherlock listened attentively, his chin rested comfortably in his hands. It soon reached 11:00 PM when John had finished Sherlock's long list of questions. After his apologies of rambling on, he asked what Sherlock had done over the past four weeks, to which the raven- haired man responded with "Nothing much" as a wide grin spread across his face.

Sherlock pulled out his phone as he finished the last of his wine; he scanned through his music library as John watched him curiously. Suddenly 'The Way You Look Tonight' started playing from Sherlock's phone as he placed it in his trouser pocket. He stood up from the table and walked up to John who was now staring at him in perplexity.

"May I have this dance?" Sherlock asked with a hint of charm to his voice. He held out his hand, anxious for John to take it. Would John find this romantic? Or would he laugh and think he was joking? These were the questions that plagued Sherlock's spinning mind as each second passed. Much to his relief though, John smiled warmly at Sherlock as he took his hand. How much time had passed as they danced? None of them knew, all they knew is that it was now the ninth song that was playing on Sherlock's playlist that he had put together especially for that night. The couple's feet were synchronised as they slow danced together, occasionally humming to the romantic songs that sounded from Sherlock's pocket. To John, this was the highlight of the night, Sherlock didn't need extravagance to show his love -although the meal was mainly Angelo's doing. The simplicity of them dancing together, without saying a word and feeling as connected as ever was what made John feel loved the most. He pulled back a bit to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Why did you go to such an effort tonight?"

"What do you mean?"

"You could have waited here, ordered a takeaway and then we could have watched television together, but instead you've gone to this great effort to make everything perfect, not that I don't like it," John smiled, "but why did you do it?"

"I didn't really realise how much you meant to me until after you left; when you did, I felt lost, I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. Your little departure taught me that you don't deserve just a takeaway and television, I care for you too much to do something so basic. John, I'm doing this because you deserve my whole heart and my very best." Sherlock gazed into John's eyes which were now glossy with tears of happiness. "Although I wasn't expecting to see so many candles when I got back, I wasn't expecting to need a gas mask to prevent myself choking on the aroma they're emitting either." Sherlock smirked. John chuckled as he rested his head on the taller man's chest. "I love you, Sherlock." His feet still gracefully moved in sync with Sherlock's.

"I love you too." Sherlock held onto John tightly as he gently stroked the hair on the nape of his neck. "Welcome back John..."

The couple weren't exhausted from slow dancing that lasted nearly an hour, but they decided to sit down on the sofa anyway. "Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"You kissed me in the airport, you lost." John couldn't hide the large smile that was growing on his face.

"What?"

"You heard me, Sherlock. You lost at your own game."

"Don't be absurd. I didn't lose."

"Really? Because I believe that you lose after showing affection in public." John's smile was ever-growing.

Sherlock paused as he considered to admit defeat. No, he couldn't do that. Sherlock Holmes was not losing at his own game. "And did I show any sexual affection? No."

"It doesn't have to be sexual affection! You still gave away that we're together!"

"It has to be _sexual _affection, John, even if it wasn't I still wouldn't have lost because the conveyor belt at the airport was practically deserted!"

"There were still a few people there though! They could have saw us! And I'm quite sure that it had to be _any _signs of affection."

"Nope, hugging is affection, it doesn't necessarily mean that we're together if we hug."

John paused, he had full knowledge as to why Sherlock was being so stubborn. The detective was lying too, if he could get away with kissing, why did Sherlock stop him when John went to kiss him when they were shopping? Fine. If Sherlock wanted to be stubborn, John would need a way to make him lose again...

"Fine, I'll let you get away with it." John rolled his eyes, revealing defeat to disguise his scheming mind. "We're not in public now though..." John slowly crawled onto Sherlock's lap before he started to play with the man's shirt buttons. "So there's no need to hide anything, normal _or_ sexual."

"A valid point." Sherlock's voice suddenly became deep and quiet, John could only just hear him.

"I think you need to make up for the cheesy meal." John winked as he started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

"Do I now?" Sherlock now had a mischievous grin across his lips.

"Yep, and for being so stubborn with your little rules..."

Before Sherlock could reply, John had closed the distance between them, forcing Sherlock against the back of the sofa as he demanded dominance. He used his delicate tongue to force Sherlock's mouth open and explore its contents. Sherlock couldn't stop the lustful moan which escaped his invaded mouth. He struggled to gain dominance but John refused; the doctor pushed his hands against Sherlock's now bare chest with increasing force as Sherlock struggled helplessly. He eventually gave in and caressed John's waist when the doctor speedily slid Sherlock's plum shirt down his shoulders and threw it to the other side of the sofa. The room was filled with newly discovered moans as both of their hands explored each other desperately. John eventually straddled Sherlock and he littered the detectives neck and chest with heated kisses, this didn't stop Sherlock from trying to hastily undo John's belt though. The doctor found his fingers deep within soft ebony curls as he slammed his mouth frantically against Sherlock's, his tongue battled with Sherlock's playfully as he felt his trousers tighten; the detective's hands roamed beneath John's jumper before he pulled it off in one fluid motion. Gasping up for air, John pulled back, causing Sherlock to whimper slightly. "I think the bed would be more comfortable than the chair." Sherlock stated as he lay helplessly beneath John, panting. John nodded in agreement. "I also have protection in the bedroom..." Sherlock suggested.

"Are you sure?" John asked, concerned.

"I couldn't be more positive." The man chuckled as he pulled the blond into another heated and lustful kiss...


End file.
